


Muse

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Music, Musicians, Sherlock being a bit of a twat, references to past domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:47:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's another story set in the Guitar Man universe, in which John used to be in a band. This one is set a few months after Mash-ups and Jams.  Not only does Sherlock actually like John's old music, he's intrigued because he had not deduced this as being part of John's past.  John is playing around with writing songs again, after 20 years, but he's trying to keep it a bit of a secret. As usual, where Sherlock is concerned, this doesn't work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muse

John Watson hadn’t expected to be needing his combat skills on return home from the surgery that day, though living with Sherlock Holmes brought him constant surprises of this nature. He certainly hadn’t been expecting to employ said skills against the said detective, but that’s what living with the world’s only consulting _twat_ would often get you.

“Give it back!” John partially released Sherlock from the headlock in which he had him, reaching for the folder brimming with papers that Sherlock held out of his reach. _You and your ridiculously long arms_ , thought John bitterly, reflecting on his own rather shorter ones that didn’t bridge the distance.

“If you didn’t want me to find it,” Sherlock was saying in a strained tone, trying to maintain his length advantage, “You should have locked it up properly.”

“Because…” grunt “Keeping it in…” huff “The locked drawer…” hiss “Of my filing cabinet wasn’t proper enough for you.”

“You know perfectly well, John, that it’s not.”

John made a very ungentlemanly noise, akin to a screech, and attempted to strangle Sherlock.

Sherlock took advantage of the power shift to break free, snatch the folder against his chest and vault over his chair. John abandoned gazelle-like leaping over furniture in favour of simply catapulting like a rocket straight after him, tackling Sherlock around the waist and bringing them both down to the floor with a painful crash. Scrabbling over the top of his flatmate, he grabbed the folder, yanked, rolled like he was ducking gunfire and emerged, triumphant, at the edge of the kitchen, the precious folder in his hands. His chest was heaving with the effort, and his eyes wore the triumphant expression that had given comrades, allies and enemies alike pause.

Then he saw the one piece of paper that had come adrift in the melee and settled on the floor between them. With a crow of victory, Sherlock flung himself on top of it before John had taken more than a step. He stopped, defeated, but glaring.

Sherlock scuttled away to the corner, for all the world like the paper was _his precious_ sss, and cast his eyes over it before John had the chance to brain him with a vase.

John was very tempted, of course, but he knew who’d have to clean up both the shards and the split skull. So he just slumped in his chair and held the folder over his face so he didn’t have to see.

Sherlock’s silence indicated he was reading the paper a second time.

“That song’s not ready yet,” he tried to explain.

“Nonsense. You’ve been rehearsing this in your room for the last fortnight.”

“Not the lyrics.”

“No, not the lyrics. This is the third song you’ve written in the last eight weeks,” Sherlock continued, “But you never sing the lyrics. You do hum the tune, though. I know from your early work that you do not write instrumental songs, and that the lyrics are always personally meaningful. _Ipso facto_ , all three songs have lyrics that you don’t want me to hear.”

“Excellent deduction, Sherlock. Yes. I wrote songs. I don’t want you to hear them.”

“But you play well, the melodies are fine. Almost as good as your early work with Gladstone’s Collar…”

“I’m out of practice,” mumbled John.

“Are you afraid you’ve forgotten how to write lyrics as well? Because you do actually remember how to play the guitar.”

John had gone beyond resigned now, and was feeling rather bloody minded about Sherlock’s inevitable opinion. He lowered the folder to meet Sherlock’s gaze, his shoulders squared to meet any incoming fire. “You’ve read them now. What do you think?”

To his surprise, Sherlock appeared thoughtful. “This ‘conducting light’ thing. It’s what I said to you at Baskerville. This is not what I meant when I said it.”

“I know it’s not what you meant. You were being rude.”

“It was a compliment.”

“Backhanded as always. You’re the only person I know who can actually combine rudeness with a genuine compliment and mean it. But yes, I know it’s not precisely what you meant.”

“And this is…” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “Illuminating.”

“Very funny. I love a bit of wordplay, me.”

“And it’s somewhat flattering.”

John rolled his eyes.

“Is that really how you see yourself?”

Not the question John had expected. He frowned. “I suppose so. Yes. I’m a doctor, and a soldier. Was. I’d say I had a fundamentally dual nature, wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock nodded, but he was already distracted by the words scrawled under the lines of music. “And this... is how you see me?”

“Sometimes. When you’re not being a complete arse.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John again. “You have misunderstood everything, as usual.”

John sat forward in the chair, giving Sherlock an evil look. “Two things, Sherlock. One. My experience of this is mine, not yours. What I see is what I see, whether or not you like it. And two. The hell I have. I think I understand some of this better than you do.”

Sherlock appeared to be ready to fight the point some more, but John held out his hand for the song sheet. Sherlock snatched it to his chest again. John sighed and watched Sherlock climb to his feet, pick up his violin from the table and tuck the song into his music stand. Then John closed his eyes and listened while Sherlock played the opening stanza. Sherlock shifted the violin a little so that he could sing and play simultaneously, and the words, sounding more perfect than when John played them to himself, emerged.

_If I’m conducting light  
What is it makes my darkness bright?  
Because I am, I am, I am illuminated_

Sherlock played it a third time, then continued with the rest of the song. At the end of it, Sherlock turned to John.

“Why didn’t you want me to hear this?”

“Because it’s _personal_ , Sherlock. Why do you think?”

“But it’s about me.”

“Sherlock, no, it’s about _me_. It’s about what I think and feel about myself and… about you.” He finished in a fading voice and looked a combination of embarrassed and stricken. “I know you get this, Sherlock. The music you write is nothing like mine, but you know it doesn’t work unless you put part of yourself into it. I write songs about what I feel, and frankly, I’m not as willing to bandy about what I feel as when I was an angry 18 year old kid with dysfunctional family issues. I wrote these to see if I still could, not to drag out and play for… “ He stumbled.

“For their muse?”

“You insufferable knob.”

Sherlock looked wounded.

“I find,” John added, “That none of my muses ever particularly enjoyed hearing the songs I wrote about them. Harry didn’t speak to me for a month after _Sharp_. My father clouted me with a bottle of sherry before drinking himself into a stupor after he heard _Empty House_ for the first time. I needed stitches.”

“I promise not to clout you, John. You called me an _angel_ in this one. Horribly sentimental and hideously ill informed…”

“You did notice the context of that line, didn’t you? With the sword and being terrifying? That’s not sentiment, that’s…” John flinched slightly at Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, and then remembered that, god damn it, he’d had knives, bombs and bullets flung at him, and a little arch of facial hair was not in fact a deadly weapon. He finished the thought: “A biblical kind of awe for what you do.”

The eyebrow was put back on safety. John sighed.

“What are the other two?”

“What?”

“The other two songs. What are they?”

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“No. It’s what makes me illuminating, as you so poignantly write.”

John debated actually eating the last two songs, still inside the folder in his grip. He could do it. It was non-toxic ink. He had eaten army food for a decade. Two songs wouldn’t be much bother. Bit of a waste of all those hours, though.

“They’re not about you,” he said.

“What makes you think I want them to be?”

“Your massive ego?”

“I have a massive ego about my work, John, which you know is more than justified. I’m not really very interested in reading more about how wonderful you think I am. I know you think I’m amazing. You tell me so on a regular basis.”

John wanted to be much more cross about that summary, but he was honest enough to know it was true. Really, as a grown man he ought to be much more embarrassed by the praise he heaped upon his best friend. He tried to make up for his genuine admiration by also genuinely telling Sherlock when he was being a genuine and utter prat. It made for a kind of balance, he supposed.

“Do I want to know _why_ you want to look at them?”

“As you say, writing music is about giving a soundscape to the inner self. I’m still trying to extrapolate you, John.”

“So you sneak into my room, break into my cabinet and steal my music because you’re trying to work me out.”

“Yes. I don’t like puzzles.”

“You love puzzles.”

“Solving them, yes. I do," Sherlock agreed readily, "And I need some more pieces for this one.”

John found this obscurely flattering. He opened the file and handed over the top two sheets, the tidiest versions of the other songs he’d been writing. He still wasn’t happy with them. Twenty years was a long time between riffs.

Sherlock took them, read them, put them on the music stand. He considered the songs and, as with _Illuminated_ , spent a moment translating the melody into something for violin. Once again, John listened to his brain and heart turned a soundscape to the inner self, as Sherlock had so rightly put it. Under Sherlock’s hands and in Sherlock’s voice, they were better songs than he’d thought.

He played _Battlefield_ first.

_You're not the only one who knows  
And embraces how it feels  
To soar on knowing that your home’s  
inside the battlefield_

And for that moment, John knew that Sherlock knew exactly what he meant.

And then _This Ghost_ rose from the strings, at first sounding exactly like a spirit. How did Sherlock do that?

_Alone is not a trophy  
And lonely isn’t strong._

It sounded different, when Sherlock sang that. It sounded… more. Like something they shared, rather than something that was just him.

And then the music became more solid, matching the lyric.

_You see me, make me real_

And John supposed it couldn’t hurt for Sherlock to know that. Sherlock, being Sherlock, probably already knew it, even though they’d never really talked about it. Sherlock had cured him of the psychosomatic limp, after all.

_Instead of afterburn, I’m burning  
My pulse beating to break free  
This ghost’s alive and breathing  
This ghost is turning into me_

The music stopped and John sighed. He still wasn’t completely happy with the second line of that lyric. He opened his eyes again, only just realising that he’d closed them to listen.

He saw Sherlock pluck the songs from the music stand, tap them together to make a neat sheaf. He held them out to John. John took them, frowning a little, suspecting that Sherlock didn’t really think much of the songs. _Oh well._ He tucked the papers into the folder.

While his eyes were averted, he heard Sherlock say: “You are the most real person I know, John. And thank you. For _Illuminated_.”

John raised his gaze and they looked at each other.

“You’re welcome.”

A beat.

“Though you’re still a knob for breaking into my cabinet.”

Sherlock just grinned at him, and John couldn’t help grinning back.

“Yes all right,” he conceded, “I won’t hide my songs any more. But you’re not allowed to see them until I think they’re ready. Deal?”

Sherlock’s grin broadened. “Deal. Now. Let’s rehearse _Illuminated_. I have some ideas for the violin arrangement. Then _Battlefield._ Then _This Ghost_.”

“You’re a pushy bastard.”

“Yes. You can write a song about that later.”

“I probably will,” John threatened as he went upstairs for his guitar.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics to the new songs (and links to my attempts to sing them) to follow.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Muse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2332322) by [the_kings_daughter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_kings_daughter/pseuds/the_kings_daughter)




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